


With a Promise of Remembrance

by nigellecter (orphan_account)



Series: Nigelisms [3]
Category: Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Coma, F/M, Other, Post-Canon, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-04-04 04:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 15,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14012352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: Solo writings based on one-word prompts spanning Nigel's kid!verse through post-canon.





	1. Chapter 1

  * **01\. — _first_**



Watching the sun wash the world in vivid hues of magenta and burnt sienna over the crystalline stretch of horizon, meeting with the depths of darkness from the night before is the relief that comes in  _waves_ as he climbs in bed after a day of trials and hard work. The very first glance of the **finest sunset** across the serenity of motionless lake is something that absolutely entrances him. Despite the  **fuzzy dizziness**  he still suffers from the fall last night, the Cheshire smile donned across Nigel’s young face as he watches a  _confluence of colors_ form is something he always wanted anyways. 

A **firework booming** , iridescent colors coming in the contrast with the obsidian shades of the night sky, as the beat of a song radiating through his body as the drums clashed one more time. The silhouette of  _branches_ , hardwired around the slender, lanky limbs of his still etched in scratches as he smells a faint scent of  **petrichor** against the sleeves of his worn-out shirt. 

As soon as he tucks himself into the familiar scent of comforting sheets, the darkness comes with agglomerating  **silver tides** ;  _briny_ and _frothy surf_ tapping incessantly against the shut windows. It must be only the barrier that separates him between his rest and the rampant imagination galloping wild against the gentle darkness of his roomas further raindrops collide and leaves impressions of the world of his  **paradigm**. 

Peripheries gently obscured, as the **visible visages** of subtle dreams ascend him towards the dream; spilling forth like a fflood, as a multitude of landscape scenes  _unfold_ , as if draping under the **canvas of a valley** he had been gazing downward before his fall. 


	2. Chapter 2

  * **02\. — _kiss_  **



The  _projection_ of his smile is wound and molded into the beauty he thought she encompassed. Her eyes, akin to the stretched horizon amidst forest in twilight, with the jut of his lips like hot candle wax. Perhaps his favorite scent stretching further, breaking the  **potent headiness** of his arousal refusing to turn back the hands on his broken clock, so he could perserve the snapshot moments. 

There’s no twisting **time’s fate**  into  _reasoning_ anymore, as slow collapse of his tangibility and elastic body elongates the concept of time and he’s hooked onto her lips like a  _clashing hook_ of wave and he hasn’t blessed with such rhythmic ripple of his ribcage, as such thrilling energy proportionally glows as his exposed expanse of tremulous back quivers in flesh and muscles. 

He doesn’t know how to cope with all of this foreign sensation that seems to shake through his core, as his heart buzzes in jolts,  _twitching_ and  _trembling_ beneath the gentle closure of eyelids as everything becomes  **chaotic**. Gabi’s subtle guidance beneath his jaw brings him back from such  **reverie** and  **incongruity** of all this, as his spine paralyzes and tauts, as if he had been hung up in the air. And in that moment, he becomes completely  _intoxicated_ ,  _attached_ , even  **destructive**. 

Electrifying hazel collides shut upon endless staccato of their mingling lips, and behind all of his closed resoluteness of his steely facade, behind the welled-up abyss where  **complete darkness**  resides, he lets the light seep into him. Concurrently, as he emblems with such souvenirs that would entirely make him  _hers_ , as his own grounding and  **fevered impression** engrains in his mind and etches in his soul. 

An endless exploration to become ambulatory upon her alabaster flesh, as his hands become shadows  **contouring** and  **hollowing** her out whole. With one of her wrists still bound close to her side, the other hand freely roams. His  _territory_ ,  **coalescing** and  **levitating** into nothingness as more articles fly off from their trembling, sweating bodies. His own paints her with more coral blossoms, as it becomes the hinges winding around her throat as his vocal chords become powerless to elicit such  **breathless pants**  as they press against the back of his throat. 

Roaming her breasts and feeling her stimulated body become such a  **heatwave** upon his gale. As his knees dig further beneath the back of her thighs, he’s  _one stepping stone away_ from both truly conquering her, and be concurrently  **devoured** and  **savored**. Hell, he would be the collapsed ashes of the bridges that she has decimated and she becomes the most  _softest honey_ and  _golden light_ and as well as a parching sunray that would annihilate his form whole.

The sense of awakening is an inevitability, as a gentle rage simmers inside him and it is getting stronger by minutes - he will hold it close to her and she will further nurture it and let it grow. 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

  * **03\. — _final_  **



He can still hear it in the streets, through the **thousand heartbeats**  whirling past by him. Yet he cannot remember the  _crescendo_ of the tunes, the melody that had once  **revitalized** him with the anthem on the veins, and of thousands of billions of his **fervent cells** thrumming as it’d become the  _sole sensation_  of serving as a  **harbinger of light** to his darkest nights. 

He may be falling apart (if he hadn’t been  _shattered_ into flecks of ungatherable dust just yet), as there’s this  **darkness** that follows him everywhere. A web of moving light bound in tight bundles amassed in his fevered hazel eyes, he could feel his  **mauve knuckles**  futilely attempting to clutch _severing microscopic connection_  between neurons and his demolished world. 

_Electric_ , turgid and fast-flowing stream of his conscious gathers into a swollen thundercloud, lightning tendrils traversing throughout, with wind funnels spinning and engorged particles reverberating with speculation and contemplation. All the  _thunder_ and  _noise_ , the forces driving the current of his mind inside, remembering the **thriving sensations** that lap at him in incessant wave formations, enwraps him with a clash of dancing movements, lighting up  **electrical impulses**  before they traverse and spark at the synapses. 

Perhaps he had been  _unpooling_ the fat reel of his mind as all the nerves would sever, a web of moving light bound in tight bundles as they dissipate, _each minutia of motion_ , each  **exploding thought observed** , caught in all the sticky sanguine spread pooling above his head. 

The heartbreak of losing his trace, one that is not his, but is  _so his_ persists. The once ecstasy-inducing  **euphoria of life** _corrupts_ him with lumps of fresh air and quick steps that drag all the scents and shadows and remnants of people along with them. Such  _cruel_ ,  _merciless_ stretch of severed world rushes and hurries, the inevitable disappearance of his  **individuality** robbing this essence of life that came to him, graced his soul and lifted him whole. 

Yet, how it fails to blossom from his beloved, scented of  **sacrilegiousness** , instead of  _sacredness_ and robbed of so many beautiful things. And when his brain interrogates his soul, he remembers each and every one of their memories; like stubborn stains that can’t be bleached from his conscience. Each memory a blotch in the fabric of who he is in those quiet moments his soul takes the last stand and his brain finally gives in without all the madness and insanity. He’d been birthed into it, so he’d exit with dramatic grandeur, of his withering. 

In his mind, it is still HIM that comes to kiss Gabi’s neck in a  **ghostly embrace** , maybe one that was from the welled depth of his wishes, a spiritual kind,  _imbued_ in rare holiness. But the fate rushes forward, dragging all of his life,  **impurity** and  **vanity** in all these cracked composure, as he becomes such unholy creation of the  **monstrosity** , consumed and devoured beneath the azure midnight as his subliminal directions become lost in the hurtling smoke of his last exhale. 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

  * **04\. — _numb_**



How  **Gabi’s name**  stays beneath his tongue, in tandem with  _swirling, agglomerating passion_ ; yet it becomes an **unwanted memory** , as the taste of her lips had long been faded. Yet, the feeling never does. He still recalls how sweet it was, and he remembers how she gently held the crook of his neck, as the pulse of his heartbeat would resonate through the carotid, surging through his  _strong gullet_ as it pulled him so much closer to her, pulled him very much in love with her. 

And when they clashed together, they were absolutely drunk in **passion** ;  _assaulting lust_ and  _luxury_  in their lips while battling against their breaths. It was never just a spark **,** as they exploded like **ground pigment of gemstone dust**  scattered above the ocean’s grace as the cloud nine persisted through their commingling ecstasy as she, in her  _entirety_ , would become rays of sunlight flooding in his dim flat. Each kiss, that he’s allowed to  _give_ her, that he’s allowed to  _taste_ travels straight through his veins, would go straight to his heart and reside there. 

She is his  **salvation** , her embrace is his  **fall from grace**. Thus, he lets himself sink in that ocean of unspoken feelings, as the thudding bass echo their hearts, as the muffled music become the soundtrack of his universe. How his heart becomes like a lit match; bright, hot, burning a dot of light in the pitch dark world of his. No more of smoke swirling above the charred wood;  _damaged_ ,  _purposeless_ as the **cool indifference**  of his hardened facade would melt right beneath his scalding warmth and above her gossamer flesh. 

How his gaze would transmorph to become  **sweet** , almost  _pure_ and  _glistening_ , beneath the  **rakish playfulness**  of his smirk. As breaths hitch and disappear into their molding lips. 

He could only feel desperation, as his skin crawls and his eye burns. All this abrupt, sudden urge that is nowhere to be discharged manifests and twists into  **unbearable wrath**. As his being twists and tangles beneath the invisible shackle, as his face remains grinning all bloody in the  **smudged mirror** ; as he shoves them back in with shaky fingers and then clench his jaw shut until he feels the roots stabbing up in his gums,  _pain_ throbbing until he can hear it in his ears - a  _pulse, a beat_  - he may be alive, as warm salty blood still flows, spilling from the corners of his lips, Jackson Pollock-ing the white canvas of the sink as it drips. Yet, all the passion had fizzled out, along with already faded tenderness, slowly, then all at once like a candle neglected to burn for far too long. 

And he would have an ocean in his mouth and he can’t fight the tide anymore, he opens up and it starts to pour out - teeth flying like  _projectiles_ , cracking the mirror, his face all  **crooked** and  **screwed up** , splintering with every tooth that becomes knotted and bent beneath the infinite pathway of the _mobius strip_  of his nightmares. Never would he relentlessly pursue the things that would make his soul hum and buzz, because not a damned fucking thing makes him come alive, with nothing ringing so bright and loud and luminous that everything else dims and grows quiet. 

His skin would grow cold without the  _vibrancy_ of the unceasing rapid-fire of his  **captivated lust,** that had onceentralled all the mystery of the night. 


	5. Chapter 5

  * **05\. — _broken_  **



The leaves fall in different shades of green and amber, and the sun shines through the gaps of the **forest’s canopy**  in shimmering radiance of golden rays, becoming a scattered array as Nigel’s eyes follow the path that lay before him, cleared by the beckoning bushes. His legs remain  _dangling_ , as his lips color red like ripe red fruit and cheeks of coral blossom of a peach. And the splayed fingers upon the rough bark parts before him, as if  _possessed_ into moving by a  **mystical gale** that would not move nor touch him. 

How it carries a faint scent that  _captivates_ and  _gravitates_ him; or rather, holds him  **captive**. Akin to invisible reins pulling his body towards a  _desired destination_ , or rather a  **destination of desire**. The crisp air of late fall, with its thickened ambience becomes so easily  _pronounced_ and even more  _enticing_ along as simultaneously, he feels sensations of sheer joy, anxious anticipation and a deep-rooted sadness of coming across a doe ravaged in the lonest hours of its existence, without any company. 

His firm, yet trembling fingers part the  **rich-leafed curtains**  as clouds whirl in his mind, silencing every doubt and worry that he’d repeat the same mistake of stepping onto the slippery crust of frozen sleet. Becoming fearless is admitting that he’s afraid, and the second is doing it anyway. Never would his mind be constricted nor hindered by the prospect of _unknown_ and  _unfamiliarity_ , as his  **unexplored universe**  opens his eyes when the diminishing sun cuts through the blinds of all the verticality of the verdant forest. 

Juse as he, and people and animals alike, many of them have  **failures** , make  **mistakes** and find themselves  _lost_ and  _confused_. Some even been  **hurt** or  **violated** by others in ways that are difficult to resolve. Yet, no grip of shame or feeling  _undeserving_ clams up his wild, adventuresome spirit. There may be an **inexorable knot**  in his stomach as his head reverberates with the muscle memory of his  **dramatic plummet**  towards the earth, yet no similar substance  _gnaws_ and  _tauts_ and  _tenses_ his nerves as he descends, with precise movement and finesse learned from the **glorious mercy**  of fate. 

Yet, such  **mercilessness** of the rapid-moving earth, the  _hierarchy_ of the predator and prey shatters when he finds the remnant of buried skeleton beneath the blanket of frozen, layered snow. And beneath the ink flow of the night, his slender fingers dig through the frost, through the embedded earth to excavate and paint, in order to exonerate and pay respect to a severed life which has never gotten a chance to soar through the skies to own and conquer the night’s deepening colors. 


	6. Chapter 6

  * **06\. — _wings_  **



Such channel of platitudes does not get easier over time. The changing of it is quicker, farther apart now, but just as strong as the salt-brine of his  _blood_ and  _sweat_ effervesces, decaying under the piles of his desire. How they had become tongues watering a bouquet of flowers that never learned how to blossom. His own breaths had become the  **dreadful sound of notifications** ; of his  _non-lustrous life_ , of his dwindling potency and fueled energy, ring after ring after ring and he would go deaf trying to ignore the urgency. 

There is nothing  **poetic** about preventing his wounds to heal, just so he could have some blood to spill - with the sky spinning on its  _axis_ as his ensorcelled gaze would futilely try to reverse and hold the very sky still,  **suffocating** on his own shadow as he’d untie the chain of ego. Move away from the doom as he would reduce down to a fraction of himself, gradually  _annihilating_ his blood cells. He’d rather abandon the **momentary silence**  that fills his solitude, as static slowly creeps in every corner of his  _consciousness_ , ripping his quiet rest.  **  
**

How the white space in his mind seems to pump and flow too fast and he haven’t slept properly in days because all he can fathom is  **oceans** , oceans that  _split_ ,  _disembogue_ , _parched dry_ before the unstable ground would  **swallow** and  **regurgitate** him. And now, the spilling void illuminates like diamonds, a flicker of the night growing ever luminescent as he drowns in Gabi’s milky way serenade. 

He refuses to shed his  **outer gases**  into interstellar space. But he would be one of those that occur in one in a thousand –  _the star whose mass is greater than about seven or eight times that of the Sun_  – dying a  **violent, dazzling explosion**  called a supernova. 

And he’d float, instead of  _descending_ very loudly in his ears as the echo in his heart also tumbles at the every edge with  **rapture** , as etched carvings continually paint the red, thick line. 

That must be what this is now, a fucking SUPERNOVA, with no orchestrated  **tragedies** and **viciousness** , no  **hollowness** or  **unbecoming**. All of his established belief, all of his grievings of the past as he had been guried in his own grave of confined mattress, and against his will, he’d let himself  _drown_ , and be readily  **devoured** , until he learns to breathe again.

It would be no Big Bang, instead, he would be left aware of a caving open inside him of soomething amiss in his part, feeling  **pain** , which could last a _full eternity_. All the whites may make him shiver, yet the **thrumming beats**  in his ears will emulate the beating, moving life beneath the plumage of strobing sunlight, as the Siren’s Call slowly relinquishes all the tense and taut control over his muscles and conscious. 


	7. Chapter 7

  * **07\. — _melody_  **



How he swings on  **starry tendrils** ; an unfamiliar realm where he’s caught in the pendulum between a  _docility_ , the pyrrhic victory of a dream coming undone with the darkness of the night, riding on ebony wings across the iridescent deserts of so many lives he had severed and skewered. And beneath the unimpressive concrete jungle of Bucharest, how the  **crystal-flecked emerald seas** unfold; the obvious enticements to the Elysian fields against the ravaged reality buried beneath his glassy, intense hazel. How they still forge on Nigel Lecter’s  _unforgiven, driven path,_  where the life of his absolution roams and wanders free.

He could simply  **crumble** and  **disintegrate** here and now, as he’d step out onto nothingness as he falls. He tumbles forward and he ends up all  _discombobulating_ at the beginning of the next line in an enjambment. No today and tomorrow separates with a synthetical break and the susurrus of the gentle snowfall twinkle like fading stars beneath the lamplight of the approaching moon. But he doesn’t have to see them; for Gabi’s touch remain upon him, like she had been his Pygmalion, sculpting Galatea from the strokes of  **hammer** and  **chisel** with increasing affection.

She paints the night sky on his bare back and pull the fucking ocean closer without ever touching, as he laces within his own  **vulnerability** while she puts himself back together and how her fucking love fills me as he gives himself away to her. She as the  **creator** and he, her sole  _masterpiece_.   

There’s no better remedy for  **chaos** and  **disorder** than to let it divert its course; a strange - _too familiar yet too strange_  - feeling overwhelms him and grips his heart tight - the darkness inside of him being gulped by something bright. As he had painted her with his words, in loose syllables and colorful synonyms.

How his  **fervent furnace**  blossoms, like wilting sunflower’s petals blossoming beneath the radiant sun’s touch. The periphery of his leaf resembling the matted strands of his hair, messily scattered and discarded against his hot forehead. His eyes a land full of sand that burns whenever directed by rays of sunshine and caress of her touch. He’s  **dazzlingly delighted** , as he embraces the mix of delicate silk and calloused rustle of the fabric. It might melt into a fiery  _charming red_  into the  **dark olive** of his tanned skin; and he lets himself immersed in such chimerical color of happiness itself.

And he could be dragged beneath that very fucking chariot as  **slain Hector**  and he will smile still, as his heart skips as their orbits align - for stretching time makes his heart to grow fonder, while all it had offered him in return had been making everything harder to forget. How could he ever forget what’s so lovely constructed inside his mind. She isn’t a half-memory blackened in dust. She’s as real as the fucking  **taut piano wire** embedded on his skin, the whitewashed and decrepit walls of his flat and the raw and bloody fucking concrete remnants, but she - she’s a  **paradise** unfurled over the tangibility of a real world.

Now he wonders such buzzing white noise had been caused by his Faustian bargain from  **despair**. Such eroded concept of once fairy-tale angel having manifested from the yellowed and crumbled page of the book. And he also  _wonders_ if he had already fallen into the realm of dreaming of  **gold** , beyond the  **abundant graveyard** of his oblivion.


	8. Chapter 8

  * **08\. — _rules_  **



The times when he’s not feeling like he was not born in the right place and right time are more than the ones he does feel the world was made for him. Sometimes looking at the stars brings him to tears -  _not quite shed, but glassy enough that the world hurtles past in quick strokes_  - and he still wonders why, all the **downright trespassing**  of their serene sanctuary now overwhelming him with nothing, but a sense of  **nothingness**. As his gaze falls and lingers on the dark sky, he has a sense of longing;  _nostalgia_ ,  _melancholy,_ a voice screaming inside him. 

This may be where he belongs and had lived all his life, but the glimmering stars immesurable distance away feels more welcoming than the  **true tranquility**  of a home that had been robbed its  _meaning_ behind its ravaged existence. And yet, he finds himself stuck in this world, in this  **neverending orbit**  of  _split lips_  and _torn knuckles_  and  _bruised flesh_. His own chest palpitates so much so, and he wonders if he could ever contain the rapid beat inside the brittle xylophone of his ribcage. 

He  _does not_  look forward to the sunlight beaming between his blinds, abruptly waking him up every morning. One would think that he’d draw his curtains the night before, but for some reason he loves the moonlight that  **urges** him to escape and bless his face with more  _gratitute_ and  _serenity_ than he’d ever face during the daytime. How his lips curl and a smile appears; for all the  **proximity** of what used to be home betrayed him a long ago, and even the person with the only blood tie with him feels a  **mile away** , even within the peripheral of their personal space. 

Perhaps this limited expanse of  _boundary_ isn’t the  **furthest** he will travel, for he’s so affected by the brokenness of his own and Hannibal’s,  **taking its toll**  and  **exacerbating** his own fueling need for  _violence_ and  _retaliation_. And all the ragged edge of affliction and grief cuts him deeply, as his sadness dwells up inside of him and all of his loneliness surrounds him. And reaching for the darkness means searching aimlessly for his tortured soul to  _escape_ ,  _grasp_ the stretching verticality of verdant forest in order to let his own  _undeveloped_ ,  _not yet fully realized_ **madness** to rule this domain. 

And it’s also easier to both  **forget** and  **remember** what could have been with a steely-eyed hazel, with an iron spine as he refuses to be splintered and reduced into a  **spectral dust**  beneath the crystallizing air as it runs into the fire of his veins. 


	9. Chapter 9

  * **09\. — _chocolate_  **



The wind rustles through the treetops as water trickles down a stream just out of view, but Nigel doesn’t have to imagine the  **autumnal leaves**   _rustling_ and  _crunching_ under Hannibal’s gentle step as the door groans open and he’s graced with the whistle of the wintry air, comfortably rattling through the foyer and through the living room, where  **continuous confetti** of fire crackles beneath the furnace heat. Nigel’s breath crystallizes briefly in front of him in the frigid air, a plume of mist rising from his cracked lips and disappearing behind his head as he walks through it. 

His attention remains wholly conquered by the  **fairytale of a warrior** in front of him, he has gotten more than used to the  _icy northern winds_ coming down from the mountains, though this year, it’d come many weeks early. It’s something he was forced to learn the hard way, since he had lost conscious and grasp of reality as brittle skull rattled and almost caved in against the  **devastating force**  of gravity. That will always be looming at the back of his minds, not necessarily  _haunting_ him both awake and asleep, but he dreams of what could have happened if he hadn’t slipped in the midst of  **conquering** the tallest tree that could support his weight. 

In moments of  _excitement_ , the bright hazel orbs of his irises grow evermore bright, perhaps brighter than the tendrils of flames to a degree almost  **inconceivable** ; seeming to emit luminous rays, not of a reflected, but of an  **intrinsic luster**. It is something  _transcendent_ of a child’s gaze, as his confidence and strong bullheaded will comes from realizing that his own world is so real and extremely  _desirable_ , as  **exhilaration** thrums through the length of his curled spine as his head buries into the steaming cup of hot chocolate, resembling a series of smoke emitting from the dragon’s nostrils as the gleaming eyes devour the intrepid warrior standing before it. 

_Would he let the spirit of that very warrior descend into his body, as infinitude of both bravery and recklessness become his own creation?_  There always had been attachment to the  **ideal** ; most children wish for something  _beyond_ their dreams,  _beyond_ what’s approachable and achievable; yet he knows, without  **active participation** in the world, he’d reduce to be a boring individual who would fade beneath the most  _robust_ and curtained off by mind’s  _repose_ , of its  **hibernation**.

 And while his mind retracts further into the _gentle ebbing waves_  of his unperturbable conscious, it is meant to  **participate** in an upstream of plan; with decisive measure, as the landscape of his imagination unfolds and he  _illuminates_ , floating off into cloud of the warrior’s courage, as his anthem on overcoming himself beyond being thick with  **doubt** and  **riddle** makes him to drown further into the whole story. 


	10. Chapter 10

  * **10\. — _nostalgia_  **



In life, there are many  **portals** to the other side; as the agglomerating and intensifying excitement of a new experience of living in another world feels right, even when wrong. The time spent ignoring the real world with all of its  _realness_ increases with **great subtlety**  so great in fact that by the time he realizes that he’s spinning at lightspeed on the axis of two worlds in opposite directions, it is too late to stop. It’s not like he has  _consciously_ chosen to walk through that door as he circumstantially finds himself there. 

Not everything is  _good_ and nothing is  _sustainable_ , yet he finds himself cascading through the memories, shuffling through as he once had through the verticality of the **verdant forest** , stretched deep against crevices and bumps until he’d be consumed into the earth that tore itself in half. There are no regrets, yet  **unavoidable culmination** of percolation brings memories akin to cobwebs and a misty morning in the woods to surface; as the flames rekindle and becomes both  _beautiful_ and  _excruciating._

He still recalls himself breathing the fragrance of her hair, as he plunges his face into it like a thirsty man into the water of a spring. How the memories stir beneath the **fading scent** of his imagination; and how his soul  _voyages_ on its perfume as the  **profound melancholy** reaches beyond the eternal heat of his heart. He mimics the languors of long, sempiternal hours of helplessness and lassitude as he’s forced to be cradled by whatever  _imperceptible swell_ of day and night grants him. The **burning hearth** of his hair emotting the stale scent of cigarette tinged with opium and caramelly sugar of whiskey; as the  **midnight summer**  stretches with the sheen of the almost tropic-blue as he gets drunk on the smell of musk and tang of his blood.

He misses the drifting deep black of unexplored alleyways and the grimes and lecherous lust as he loses himself further in the realms of memory; the faint expressions of the visual world painting imagination much more  _vivid_ and  _defined_ than ever before. And he may dream as he walks down the hallway, through the light, reaching for the familiar  **darkness** ; yet they remain  _faded_ and  _blurry_ , with his body pulsing with a tight paiin, wondering why this plays perpetually in his mind. The eyes once filled with life and fire become a **gloomy void** as if silent death had taken him. 


	11. Chapter 11

  * **11\. — _heartbeat_  **



Gabi’s heart is the anchor that he wraps around his heart when he’s drifting into the sea of his  _darkness_. Her voice is the  **knife blade** that cuts through the frozen static of his mind when he cannot feel himself breathing. Her blue-grey is the light that guides him home at night on impenetrable dark, lonely roads. And she is his  **savior** when he has no one else to hold onto. With  **lips of fire** , he searches and claims her; the lush silk of his lips turning fervid and rabid. As moonlight grazes her angelic, well-defined face, as she  _leans_ into him and  _reciprocates_ to taste his lips, as **red swell** continuously passes through the linked thread of their saliva. **  
**

How he dances inside her, thinking of her unspoken words and her eyes; as an **effortless smile** quirks between his cheeks as edges dimple; the purest reason for the rarity of his smile. Such  _temptation_ to possess what’s his lingers in my mind, as he sees his desire in his heart contort by  **starvation** and an  **unstable economy**. And he’s surrounded by constellations of grey, eerie windstorms of glitter as lots of flashes and whirls surround them to agglomerate and contort the reality. It’s more than sure thing, as his filmy gaze attest to the heaving entirety, young and brimming to the fullest than ever. 

How she  _satisfies_ his thirst, as they continue to mingle with him until he threatens to burst. With all of his edges wearing down, as they become into a congromerate of a seamless perfection. Through the swelling exhales, he’s finally able to breathe, as everything steals out of his mind and body. Another shudder, another wave wrecking his very soul; in its **cruel, remarkable beauty**  as the agglomerating heat becomes red on white, as their coalescence becomes an unpublished story. More chaos administered upon his already intoxicated dopamine-fueled body as he relishes in the world of whirling dance.

He’s used to the feeling that crawls up his skin and his adamantine bones, that familiar feel of  _triumph_ and indispensable  _self-satisfaction_. Until all the synapses in his spinal chord shrieks in rumbling fissures as she avalanches upon his. Yet, the sensation becomes more like a  **conciliation** than anything else, as his flesh paints further with the gestures of ownership. 

He’s embodying the vanished overhanging sun as his hazel still clutches it with all of his might; it  _swirls_ and  _swells_ and beyond a doubt, his ribs become so brittle that they threaten to  **expand** and  **crack**. There’s so much he could feel as their bodies embody  _an eclipse,_  the light and dark coalescing together to cause a world of difference upon the humanity as to let their presences known, if they hadn’t done it already. 

On road to its pinnacle, he  **edges** , both  _painfully_ and  _delectably_ , taking rushed skips before he is faced with the zenith of all. How blood rushes, the contractions of her muscles paintiing a sinful aesthetic as his own flesh  _incinerates_ **incitations**. Their bodies embody more like a kiln, slow to reach its boiling point, then the heat feels like a widening hole swallowing them whole and each minute movement of their rippling embers elevated to become a deafening roar as he locks in  **petrification**. And a whole world of galaxy presents itself upon his half-lidded gaze, as his stillness  _extends_.


	12. Chapter 12

  * **12\. — _stranger_  **



**Bullets let fly** ; more bloodied hands lay still on the pavement as grand masses of  _coagulated spectacle of blood_  fuels isolation and insurgency of his own. And as  **growing**   **exacerbation** of his pains are injected into his weakening lifeblood, he takes on his  _ **addiction to**_   **anger** more willingly; without  _hesitation_ , as every stretch of his vein cries for it. 

An anarchic scream to  _mitigate_ and  _drown out_ the pained scream. All tortures end in  _aquittal_ or  _death_ , and he’d already faced and walked the realm of the latter. And  **liberation** from complete absence of pain is something of an impossibility in Nigel Lecter’s spectacle epic tale. 

There’s comfort in inhaling the residual smoke, encircling his head like a wreath. Between all the cigarette smoke and wasted youth of lecherousness, **nights of lies**  and  **sobering truth**  dawning with the break of daylight, the  **last gunsmoke**  becomes _invisible threads_ , sticking against the ambiance as echo twirls around his head. With the fading adrenaline drying off the running stream of his vein, his shadowy hazel eyes saturate with another kind of  _perception_ ; as his form comes badk down into tides amidst lonely coasts, where only he exists without all the other strange perceptions.

Perhaps it had been the  **chase for beauty** , as his own adventure is not restricted to the steps he takes  _beyond_ his doorsteps of the club. And that does not constitute as the road that passes between here and the life he wants to find himself in; for he perpetually lives cramped in the middle of the  **mayhem** , in the  _stillness_ of it, in the  _silence_ where he feels nothing. 

Beneath the burning stare, the groans of such insignificant life continue to beat against his palm, then through the  **eerie portence** of air, then finally through the sole of his feet. His own blood and sweat beats down upon the blackest of the black, without a single life within this  **strife**. 

In this out-of-the-body moment, the world remains  _cold_ and  _indifferent_ , yet his entire being conflagrates as everything rolls into his soul; all the  **malice, love, kindness** and  **torture** , the perfect cocktail of potent contradictions. No  _disappointments_ , but  **ecstasy** as his fingers tremble, and resemble a rickety ship on rough seas. And he is a stranger to himself now in the madness of his modern day as all the impressions of his life reflects from the surface where he resides and sinks, that also mirror both endless skies and a cosmic ocean without measurable depth. 


	13. Chapter 13

  * **13\. — _confusion_  **



The disturbance of his heart had echoed through his whole body, yet the  **cruel smirk**  that simultaneously  _enchants_ and  _terrifies_ plasters onto his facade. How his gaze becomes the  **heated knife** , the  _bullet_ one would never be able to dodge. Fingers remain clutched tightly around the grenade’s pin of his mind as faint whoosh of flame flickers the long ashen lock tickling the back of his neck. 

He finds solace in the shadows as his world surrounds by the  **midnight blue**  of its gelid, hollow coldness. Maybe he had been a  **god of vengeance** , on top of being an incarnate of  **god of night,**  because when things go out of  _haywire_ and _out of control_ , even he does not like to know the  _capabilities_ or  _spectrum_ of how much of his savagely violence could be exerted. 

All the loss and hurt, it’s such an incredible feeling that brings  **daunting emptiness**. And everything he poured into, his fucking  _heart_ and  _soul_ , the one thing that made him feel alive or maybe just even human without a **mindless exhausting abyss**  taking him off to the other realm. Only now, it becomes darker than before, into a dark empty cold road he trudges with both a heavy heart and heavy steps. How all the accumulation inflicts him with its poison, and he becomes addicted like it’s a drug. He’s drained, yet he finds strange strength with all of his bitterness and hurt. He indulges himself in the pain, because it’s so damn fucking sweet, so sugary bitter sweet against his tongue and flesh. 

He needs all of it in his system; people say it’s cocaine and heroin, but he says it’s  **antidepressant**. People may get  _perplexed_ ,  _confused_ , or even  _sympathetic_ depending on their own circumstances, but **he does not care a rat’s fucking ass**  - he’s dependent on it and he’s more than used to breathing in the toxic air that would slowly suffocate and kill him. 

He’d simply make himself comforted beneath the  **monotonous suffering** as he walks past the ghosts and demons with flowers  _growing_ and  _gathering_ from his footsteps. It may cause confusion to some, but that has been Nigel Lecter’s fucking life; as he valiantly fights for something that’s  _bigger_ and  _grandeur_ than him, and he’d be crushed, crumbled, pulverized beneath it, but he’d always find the way to blow through all the  **blood breezes** , of their  **violent delights**  as he’d always find his own significance through his  **magnificence**. 


	14. Chapter 14

  * **14\. — _bitter_  **



**His heart is a lost city** ; the ones that people still talk about, but mostly in the past tense. All the missing fragments retained, for they all belong to their yesterdays. He keeps looking for the  **undemolished trail** , but all the  _maps_ and  _coordinates_ that once were, cannot be found anymore. He was looking for his way back to the familiar, because now, it’s better  **imagined** than in tangibility. 

All he wishes to do is to remember everything with better roads and greener grasses, because he misses all the streets and the  **thriving music** , but there’s nothing there anymore, except their phantasms. The wispy remnant of what ‘ _used to be_ ,’ as memories become repainted with  **cracks** and  **every tinge of shadow** , tainting and darkening his memories. 

Even his own vessel resembles an  **empty home**  and a  **dead heart**  that forgot to beat. And seemingly, it seems there was nothing to live for anymore, but Nigel knows better. Even with all the **hollow emptiness**  of a void in the smack-dab middle of his heart, he’d persist and trenchantly live on like the  **setting sun**  and **chilly wind** ; _lighting fires to the sky_  and _raising everyone’s hair on their neck as he walks_. All the substance of  **intimidating terror**  beating through his life and his bloodstreamwith more substance than anything else. 

In all of the hiatus of his words and ellipses of his feelings,  **meteors** shower  _recklessly_ through his heart’s skipping beats, while his premature ventricular contractions can just take his breaths away and tell him it isn’t going to be the same anymore. Despair does not veil itself solely into an  **abominable agony** ; leaving love scars  _appalling_. All of the despair translates into more **self-destruction** , more evel knievel way of living. 

**Love is so fucking real still, and it hurts like a bitch**.  _Who said heartbreak is bittersweet?_  All the sweetness had gone rotted already and even those days when the sun would effervescently shine are over; as the  **darkness** begins to creep into the sky, here is what he must do to survive; and he’s pulling the strands of fire from his own body and set his fucking world  _ablaze_ , until even the last ounce of sweetness burns and becomes **bitter brittle remnant** beneath his feet. 


	15. Chapter 15

  * **15\. — _afterlife_  **



To  **dream** , in essentiality, doesn’t always mean to be  _out of touch with reality._  It isn’t an escape to land free of the existing ways of the world. It is, put simply, a way to look at things without having to be  **restricted** to what was or what is. He sees this -  _feels this_  - when the mind drifts in between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness. And what he sees himself doing things that  _doesn’t_ seem to make **any sense at all** ; but that is what it means to dream. 

Perhaps he was still dreaming, instead of being dead over the corpse of his  _suppressed_ ,  _destructive beauty_  beneath the  **insignificance** , with  **null possibility**. And for a second, the world didn’t feel like it was breaking; yet the ground crumbles beneath his feet and with everything up in flames and crashing down. Silence lingers, as  **reflective puddle**  beneath his strewn halo of hair widens as the crescent moon reflects sharp talons on his cheek, along with the night’s cold breath. 

The sounds of whirring machine, along with **deafening roar** of column of water, plunging into the outflowing river below muffles his quiet breath, beating heartbeat, along with roaming hands over his ever-motionless form. He cannot touch anything, but of  _spilling moonlight_ and unfathomable  _darkness_. His form does not reflect the fucking fire and dust, the  **brushfire** of his form in the silent night. No blazing stars of his eyes would splinter and intensify with blood, becoming a seed at night. 

He may still burn, he’s  _still_ burning, his voice becoming the spark as the kindling warmth buries between his ribs. The leverage of his fingers causing a  _chasm_ beneath the  **absolute tranquility**  of the night and mind. Yet, no peace nor solace would come to him when he has nothing left. The glowing sky darkens once again and the chalk dust of his form diminishes; and as should he be. And  **he should be**   **forgotten** ; except in  _unwritten_ and  _unsung_ stories as the tales of his  **notoriety** would be left, not of his  **fervent, soul-changing love**. 


	16. Chapter 16

  * **16\. — _daybreak_  **



He loves the pieces that make up the  **whole** of himself;  _especially_ , he loves the person who sits in the  **prime seat** of his soul, tucked in the front of his flowing ribcage in cotton sheets; soft and frayed at the edges with constant use, and he knows she’s awake without ever having to open his eyes. He loves the atmosphere that spins beneath his closed eyelids; the **spilling rain**  of the night before had long dried and just like his mind which rests in the stillness of  _quiet waking,_  sunray spills from his fingertips onto the page of their  **bedspread** and anchors him from  **knowing**. 

How his heart buzzes, along the  **wire of his ribs**  with the spark of everything. With the heart that  _wants_ and  _yearns_ , and knowing that they’re more than the  **fucking temporary rush** of the heroin or a harmful ticking clock of  **everlasting overdose** , love by definition of his is an addiction of a drug; as  _painful_ , as  _eternal_ , as  _mysterious_ as it could be. 

And akin to **manifestation of sunlight** , encompassing every fucking inch of the exposed globe, his own leeks out in  _passion_ ; in an almost angry red crescent that scorches both of their skin. How fire dances in his fingertips, as they trace a blazing trail, setting aflame every inch they grazed. She’d melt under his tough and his tongue will  _fabricate_ the  **most beautiful poetry**. 

As soon, the sparks will fly from his lips that would crave him more than a  _genial kiss_ on the crown of her forehead, the steady ocean’s rolling ebb and flow sing a  **soft tune**  along to the rhythm of their heartbeats, in tandem, to disrupt the surge ascending from deep within. Without a veneer of resistance or logic, without force and will of the  _subconscious_ pulling away from the directed path  **perceived**. And how all the  **softened edges** of her remains firm, close too his heart as she becomes a careless thief, setting his stolen heart on fire, then leaves him to burn. 

She departs to pick up her favorite donuts from the cafe that saturates with their unforgettable memory of first meeting and he’s immediately  _gravitated_ towards her lingering scent. The residual night still lingers and purrs along, with  **irresistible enrapturement of orange glow** crashing along with his own blazing warmth. As he sinks back to the realm of unconscious once again, to the  **precious land**  where only hope and love prosper and live. 


	17. Chapter 17

  * **17\. — _audience_  **



  


 

He embodies the bright red reflecting the sunlight, the rust beneath the sun  _effervescingly_ **shining** and becoming even more  **lustrous** beneath the promiscuousness of the charged atmosphere.  **Gold glitters** , flecked with dust and made alive by the rising darkness and unknown, the **multitudes of specters**   _undulate_ like tendrils of waves beyond his half-shut, gentle gaze. The dance floor erupts, and he briefly feel the cemented floor shake beneath the accumulation of weight. All the sharp features of his are honed to the girl perched atop his knees, and they are  _twisted_ and  _sexual_ ,  **shameless** and  **defiant**. 

_Ever-perceptive_ and  _wired_ mind is flooded with thoughts and images of them owning the  **night** , owning the **fucking underground of Bucharest**  within their grasp. They play their parts well; and Nigel daresay that Gabi may be his  _camaderie_ ; not only as his **sole lover**  that will set every one of his crooked fucking edge straight. He’s entirely a different creature, subdued and submit as Gabi’s scents and essentiality travels in his veins, goes straight to his heart and settles there. Their shared kisses are his  _salvation_ , embraces his  _fall from grace_. 

And he’d become a manifestation of a beast;  **carnal** ,  **primal** , almost  **pre-evolution** , stripped to his essential. How she maniacally excites him as he revels in his **full-pledged rebellion**  against a madness sweeter than sin itself swells and blooms, as his brain batters silly into  _submission_ to the heart, along with all the  **chaos** residing in him never spat out. Perhaps this is as close it gets to the world of  **happy eternity** ; without the dead sun falling right in front of him, orbiting moons plummeting to earth and shatter like glasss at his feet. 

How he’d already witnesses his  _stars_ fall and  _galaxies_ burn and everything change. And he’d let this particular desert sand shift beneath his feet, as sinkholes open and swallow him whole, yet he does not have to drag his  **calloused** and  **bleeding** palms over the dirt and the roots and the sand and the darkness and the dryness. 

No desolate place exists before him as his  **intoxication** thickens. And he’s  _blind_ ; **always blind,**  never seeing as cataracts like cream pour into the dark brown of his pupil, guiding him further into her. There’s no  **eternity of entropy**  when it comes to her; there’s only her as the v **ictorious indulgence**  continues. And he fights a different battle with the spectators amidst the thriving tumult of the club; as his existence stretches along with her, without nights indulging in  **pain** and  **grief**. No pain would knock on his door when he belongs here, meant to become a  **sea of blazing fire** as he dances under the stars in the sky;  _naked, free_ , and immensely  **whole**. 


	18. Chapter 18

  * **18\. — _endless_  **



The stars decorate his galaxy like a  **billion tiny fireflies** ; and Gabi is  _naked, unafraid_  and  _safe_ in the loop of his arm and no unstoppable force of nature created by the universe will part them. Because it’s easy to hold his  _passion_ , his  _love_ , his  _security_. Not when they’re surrounded by the  **love** and  **shelter** , that his lean, muscular form provides. He is the  **warmth of the fire**  that provides aprotective lightoutshining the dark; his own  _darkness_ , the  **beastly hunger** that threatens to push and upturn its existence. 

With the faith of undying love in his heart, he fings her  _shadows_ and  _shapes_ waltz gracefully and he wonders if all the  **scattered colors**  of the universe was seeping into him. And with all the pain he’d endured to arrive to this new day, the beauty and moments that led them here now become the ones that made them who they are. How he begins to  _unravel_ , as he watches the broken parts of his being spill onto the floor; it is in this  **crashing** that he learns no amount of breaking can ever stop him from  **rebuilding**. For there is always space for him to  _rebuild_ , there is always space for him to  **reassemble** as his fingers merrily dances,  _continuously_ , without restriction and hesitence from the sheet underneath. 

And he’s radiant, absolutely in  **stupefaction** , as inevitable bliss collapses as an  **obsessive curiosity** constantly internalizes his mind’s eye towards his one and only lover. How calmness radiates off him like the gentle, lulling sea breeze of the midsummer, and the thin layer of perspirating coating his skin must dripping with further lust. Evicting all the damage and pain, a catharsis as all the storm of swift and silent thoughts softly glow within. All the brightest ones that dare to burn him are the ones that wish of her; as dominance and a sense of ownership  _intensifies_. It had been long overdue for their course of actions and its  **consequences** would present itself to be the source of clearing their feelings. Much  _malleable_ and  _explosive_ than it had been before; he couldn’t knead and shape them to however he saw fit, even with his strong and calloused fists, yet, he could feel the  **warmth** escape and transpire from the core as it grows ravenous.

Gabi becomes the form of an angel embossed over the light filling the space and how he whispers, almost moans a quiet prayer to the halo over the head resting on his heart, as his breath comes in shaky ones and twos. How he urges further as his own eyes gleam with strands of undying sunlight, the specks dancing across the planes and minute movements of her muscles. So much so apropos of the bad, the happy and the sad, now everything becomes  _coalesced_ and what had been always constant means of grief become what used to be such forbidden concept. Something he could never have, hold and touch as his own, that would be forever be out of his reach. 

Now everything becomes so  **effortless** , without perceiving too much of his instinctive movements that become an undulation as his body becomes a grassy meadow with gentle zephyr sweeping through, the rustle of the vast field mirrors that of his hitching breath. Lips ajar and lids half-shut with growing  _illumination_ , his gaze upon her body is that of a  **spotlight** ; readily familiar as his arm wraps around her; she was his stronghold, and even when the world crumbles down upon them, their  _relationship_ will be more real than reality itself.

He burns and melts  _concurrently_ , as his skin proves that the tenderness and sweet, yet such blissful and satisfying love hadn’t always came in  **quietude** ;  _burning_ ,  _bleeding_ and  _bruising_. It’s susceptibly addicting to see the power granted upon himself, and reciprocated at the same time, as he becomes a conductor for their bodies’ orchestration. The minute flutter of his muscles, the bubbling enthusiasm manifested in the form of his  **rubicund healthy glow** , spreading like an ocean of  _effervescence_. And once again, they collide with such force and he’s ready; the burn itself that contours through his heated column becomes more potent than the liquor itself as it silences every thought. His hands, in return are free to roam as they fondle and grope, wanting more as they his body spirals out of his control he sought so much. 


	19. Chapter 19

  * **19\. — _fireworks_  **



He walks upon this city of  **broken sidewalks** ; this town teetering like bent telephone poles beneath the eyes of the  _hallucinated_. Where soaring multistory clubs becoming like village of  _vipers_ and  _verisimilitude_ , he rules over this city of Sirens -  _prostitutes and drug pushers and pimps alike_  - with  **booming intimidation**. 

The fucking rats, they are everywhere,  _scratching_ and  _streaming_ on every corner of the  _desolate_ ,  _tainted_ earth. They dress up in the old fears of people and fatten themselves with  **conniving fabrications** of the night and robs participants of the embracing warmth, the comfort of their own smell and the peace of the world’s hushing voice guiding them to sleep. And he’s in this  **preconstructed glass prison**  that would shatter with its  _ravishing grandeur_ , with  **inappropriate absurdity**  as all the pieces of him would be robbed beneath daze-inducing milieu. 

And this night is one of those nigghts his loneliness stings him harder than cheap liquor and undulations of people bumping into him without an ounce of control. He suddenly thinks of her; for he revels in the memory of her heart placed on his hands with his fingers entangled in her hair as the flood of _artificial light_ from the gap of the door falling onto his shoulder. No use trying to get drunk of other people’s skin, yet all that regret and emptiness still burns his chest. How his breath stops, but his heart races, not quite  _choking_ , but never remaining sober as all the itch, all the shivers in his breath and the numbness in his throat constitutes this  **unstoppable crushing** , and  **pent passion** , cradled by the idea of diving in his memory once again. 

And every single fucking day, it gets  _closer_ and  _closer_ , wiping out the archives of his memory as if nothing existed, as it suffocates him, as every breath comes tears. His  **survival instinct** ,  _durability_ and  _resilience_ may be the pallbearer of his suffering and self-destructiveness, yet beneath the  **viciousness** of it all, a glimpse of civility between the fueled aggrevation that makes him brazen and remorseless than most people. 

How they  _unravel_ , as he watches the broken parts of his being spill onto the floor. It is in this crashing that he too, learns that memories live like feathers, attached to the body that surrounds the  **projected bust**. And his reflection resembles a warrior dragging himself through the halls of an abandoned castle, inside the tall walls as his gasps and grunts echo, while **persistent war**  still rages outside upon greed and false pride. 

Through the eyes that still yearn and features that paint with inexonerable longing, he himself becomes the fractured phantom light, as the thoughts drip and drop onto the overcast backdrop of the wall. Maybe he would be turned into a puddle that matches his mind by the time the music is over, as the  **heat of the moment** _lingers_ like the scents that become so  _synonymous_ with her name. Through disjointed orientation, he should find further perception and comprehension through sudden, subtle  **apprehension** of being utterly lost in such familiarity. 


	20. Chapter 20

  * **20\. — _wishing_  **



His throat closes up, imitating the way his hands kissed the aggressor with anger. He remembers so well how it feels to witness such loving  **violence** , _resonating from deep within_ , as his chest seizes once more. It beats low, steady in  _determination_ , with intermittent pump of blood that echoes through his temples as his unblinking gaze sharpens considerably. His hands shake like the seeding underbelly of his rise to power, unsteady with  **repressed hatred**  and  **aching bitterness**  becoming his fuel en route to becoming the lawless cunt with a propensity for notorious decisiveness and recklessness. 

He sees the wisps of memories throughout the changing of the present as if the two were always meant to coincide with one another. It seems too  _natural_ , too  _effortless_ for his mind to revert back, because it’s difficult to believe he doesn’t have the right to think in such a way.  _But how can he not when the equal retaliation of the man’s talonlike grasp mocks his scars, his entirety?_  His  **defense mechanism**  is deeply rooted in self-preservation (despite its almost fatal flaw of self-destruction) and the only time he allows to breathe and unwind is when he’s alone. 

Violence itself is the  **salve** he offers off of his bones and marrow, as the  **conflagratory burn** threatens to dictate every one of his actions. He can still hear the echoes of brutality and how his body responds in tandem with the veins, startiing to pop up against the contour of his neck,  _ascending_ to his temple. It’s quite  **impressionable** , as it terrorizes him even when he’s not erupting with lashing strikes of a viper as it continues to simmer and bubble. 

Such  **deranged conversation**  elicited by his body is born out of  _spontaneous combustion_ of his emotions;  **unfiltered** and  **real** , spewing and erupting every inch of his being. To fall, to break, to crumble into pieces isn’t difficult, as he shatters too easily as he fabricates the unapproachable demeanor as his edges begin to wear down. He’s whole if he damn tries hard enough; and that is if he tries at all. Because misery fits him well and vitriol ire is sweet when it’s not scalding him in bitter rust and ashes. 

The coldness, both from his heat-swelling hazel eyes and unrelenting rush of memories flooding his recollections and creases of his brain forms an  **adamant bond**  tries to detach the  _reality_ and  _emptiness_ he feels inside. The consistent tremor remains ravaging within his viscera, but it doesn’t quite reach the **soldered shell**  of his form. 

The world was his to take a big chunk out of when he was in his teenage years, but now he had no one to rely on and he himself was the only one who could ever lap his  _sadness_ clean. As he had been familiar with such  **blazing** and  **brazen** heat of his writhing veins and muscles as limbs remain locked and tangled in a **painful admittance** that his weakness became the only  _shortcoming_ preventing him from escaping such oppressive treatment of the orphanage. 

All it takes is a  _glimpse_ of his mind, through torturous pain that he feels corroding bones and flesh part with a  **thudding smack**. And as soon as his limbs free, he’s onto the man’s  _exposed weakness_ like a snarling beast; concise and brutal, effective and calculated. All of his imaginations live on to paint such  **gruesome, carnal truth** , as recollections never become a  **fleeting remembrance** , of unrealized dreams. They were not meant to be  _erased_ nor  _repressed_ \- they are meant to _live on_  and  **so is he**. 


	21. Chapter 21

  * **21\. — _birthday_  **



When his life had taken a gradual, steady descent and he gauged there would be no  **nadir** upon his wretched life after retaining his lifelong affliction. More so the drawback that could end him in the chaos. After that **particular brutality**  that had ripped both his body and mind open and shut half of the world in  _terminality_ , the test had been easy. He had  _trampled_ ,  _endured_ enough hardships, yet a  **sense of failure** loomed like a swallowing wave of miasma, along with the taste of accompanying blood, bruises mapping stark planes of his muscles had purpled and burned through like a cigarette stick. 

And he remains connected to by the same flavor of monotony when he’s not blotched and weathered by too many  **hurricanes** , as he walked through too many rains and is no longer bothered by  **thunderstorms** yet is ironically afraid of simply falling. Perhaps he had underestimated himself  _unexpectedly_ too much and too wrong by miscalculating the  **probability** of risks he was about to take. All he knows is that he can take in more impact than how much he allows himself to get. 

Then, he came across Darko and had gone through his withdrawal, of his natural absence of **threaded violence**  like a determined fighter, though the loneliness hugged him as it did beneath the sickle silver moon, the same damned one no matter where he had been. He had nothing to lose and had climbed his way through hard work, determination and persistence. However, there was one  **pertinacious thread** he couldn’t sever even after he had given his most valiant effort. And that very  _victimization_ turns him over to the **irreversible realm** of being a predator, as such corruption transformed ( _and still transforms_ ) him to further evolve and adapt the characteristics forever.  

Through the rough, uncouth exterior full of virulent venom, there lied an  **empty carapace** , where it could be filled with  _customized emotions_  and the  _supremacy_ held accountable for his brewing humanity. Where the wobbling edge muddied like the blending boundary of dense puddle of blood and dead night when even moonlight hadn’t dared to make its appearance. Muscles throughout his body constricting, as if he had been shot with an **incapacitating drug**  within his system, his body feels numb all over,  _fossilized_ within the encasing pelt of his flesh. 

He stiill dreams, most of them turning into  **nightmares** as the assaulters, of course, wouldn’t have been over him like  **ravenous animals**  if he didn’t have a single pinch of supple, fatty flesh. And that alone causes him  _grievance_ and  _affliction_. Napalm pulses still throb and echo through his temples, as all the sugarcoated insecurities drown those emotions with all the fucking dirty penchants for cocaine habits. All things  _ordained_ and  _fate decided_ , Nigel does not think his life should be like this. He knows there’s a little glimmer of hope inside him that he’d been starving to death for years now, trying to sustain it, but it burns out beneath the static of his mind, as its coalescing force burns all as his  **devious intent**  and  **determination** sails out of his hand for ever. 

The idea of birth formulates in this cold, dark moment when he realizes that he has to  **reprogram** his mind to  _change_ the damage that has already been done; for what poured into him couldn’t gather itself back up. Maybe his soul wasn’t meant to be in his body, because everything he has done, he has done it without an ounce of  **expectations**. Further pain blossoms as the days go on and the more he becomes a stranger to himself. 

The wind howls, as he embodies a desperate beast loosen and unleashed, his form changed from black to silver in the half-light. Despite all the unadmitted fears and pain,  **exhilaration** replaces them all, as if able to  _cauterize_ them with every decisive step. His walk towards the  **further darkness**  tears the tapestry of heaven and earth, where he would never be, yet is his for the taking. 

That is his  _forty-fourth birthday_ , as he continues to strike fear into the  **presumptions** of Bucharest night. 


	22. Chapter 22

  * **22\. — _tomorrow_  **



She’s  _formidable_ , strong on her own. Compacted, yet having a slender, boyish and strong arms and legs help accentuate her assets. Gabi doesn’t  _frequent_ in dressing in resplendent garments, as Nigel didn’t seem to care a fuck about what she dons in - bartending requires for her to be quick on her feet and  **comfort** is the absolute requirement. So she’s in her usual skinny fit jeans, rugged with years of wear with a slightly loose tank top, covering her modest chest, along with a multicolored jacket that fits her like a glove. By the time her jet-black lids lift enough from the tumbler to gaze into the depth of Nigel’s hazel, she’s  **doggone tired** and misses her  **cello**. **  
**

Her fingers  _quiver_ in want as she returns a smile, more like a **feigned simper**. He should just blatantly tell her that he wants her, because Nigel’s gaze is much more  _intense_ and  _potent_ than the thudding hammer of EDM sweeping the atmosphere of the club and most importantly, Darko isn’t the type of a man she’ll ever associate herself with. How Nigel cuts to the chase and  _attempts_ to cut her shift short under his authority - which she’ll have none of. 

And despite her feeling her lungs  _exasperate_ with both enrichening beingness with the unease of her mind detangling within the very charged atmosphere,  _she’s on her own_ , at least until 4am when she could finally breathe. Entertaining patrons is her  **responsibility** , despite her  _exhaustion_ and wanting to escape from this darkness, all the  **ignorance** and  **hate** blooming beneath the veneer of unwinding stress and carnal lecherousness. She supposes, the destination is within the truth and the excitement of living itself dies out with intoxication. 

Yet, the weight of his request bears  _heavily_ upon her heart; there wouldn’t be negotiations, as the intenseness of his heat carries upon her surrounding aura. “Do you need anything to drink? I’ll make both of us a drink.” Supposedly, she could use a break and retreat back to the subspace of her  **voracious imagination** ; wanting to perfect her composition in his head, while curled by his side, thinking of  _nothing_ , but the music and the blood red sunset of the cafe. She indeed misses it.

* * *

 

The very beating of his heart is  **earth-shattering** , his brain feels as if melting into stew, his nerves become frozen and numb, yet he still  _feels_. Pain everywhere, all around; coloring him in  **deafening shades of red**  as it suffocates and echoes of life he used to possess. The flesh-tearing breaths, coalescing with the colorful birth of the thickening atmosphere, Gabi’s presence alone is enough to pluck him out of the melancholy disillusion that makes his own fucking universe fall and shatter. 

Happiness effortlessly seeps through his being, as the cloudy, distant gaze barely concentrates on the  **undulating limbs**  of the dancers. He barely pays a genial and mild interest; because that’s trivial and something that he sees all the fucking time. As the heart of the city continues to beat, his gaze hones to take in the holistic beauty that is Gabriella Ibanescu; his scars are still healing, and how his own universe, which used to brim with connected sorrows and destructive hatred and vile grim reaper’s strike colliding with his own reality’s course escapes with each breath. His own grim world fading away, slipping through a curtain of what he could only define as _the fucking love_. The  **otherworldly gaze**  of a clear sky does not harbor  _sullen broodness_ nor a _deepening affliction_  of how he sunk beneath it before. 

So he falls prey to the honeyed words of her  _defiance_ ; and Nigel does not see her as someone who had once dressed in inexperience, accessorized by naivety. She now stands naked in oversight, with positive resolutions implimented in her mind and heart. And his own bellowing of  **hyper-masculinity**  and considerate  **perceptiveness** collides and conspires together and form insanity. How he stumbles, as the room breathes out an endless echo of colors, a hue of true red exposing the battle of his  **despicable moral** and  **carnal desire** , the perfect glimmering yellow of a beautiful horizon and a regal purple ready to reward his  _transformation_. 

He should be  **patient** through the fraying dissonance of his self. And he does not want to come across as this **fucking ignorant fool**  who does not appreciate all of her beauty in such misconstrued obliviousness. So he stays, with wholesome hope blossoming like field of flowers, as Gabi steals his gaze and his death from him. With  _no pain, no resentment,_ but their  **coalescing breaths**. 

“I’ll have a fucking glass of draft beer, and as long as you’re going to refill it, I’m going to be fine just where I’m.” 


	23. Chapter 23

  * **23\. — _oppression_  **



The whole fucking experience stole **his life** away, and  _concurrently_ , stole **his death**  from him. This is where his  **unfurling pain**  and **deep resentment** comes from; as he would be continuously remain held by the weight of the shadow, of its and his darkness and begin to walk the inevitable path towards it. Yet, the stack of experiences, all the  _physical_ and  _emotional_ tolls he had gone through becomes the intervening road to death, as it would drag on his back as he would approach the dark gates.

Dragged to live a life that he never wanted; yet it’s not this lifestyle, the relationship between him and his twisted and tainted universe or place he resents; it is the  **experience of life** itself, one which he tried numerously to walk away from, that he absolutely  _abhors_. This feeling of being a ghost, despite feeling a thousand knives and needles perforating and threaded through his supple flesh as he crawls relentlessly from and through the wreckage. 

Despite being totally  _shattered_ with the blood in his veins dried and resembling a  **mummified soul** wandering through a mangrove forest, trying to hold onto roots underneath the perspiration surfacing from the obstructions of his dreams, he remains unmoved by fear as he buries  **unswerving thoughts**  caught in a vicious cycle of bitterness and resentment. Instead of holy fire, he would bring his own dose of hellfire through the back door of anger, despite knowing he does not stand a chance against the heavy veil he couldn’t ever lift or tear a light in a room habiting all the laid dead in his mind. 

He often wishes if Hannibal would ever walk on fire with him, to  _break_ their own habits and familiarity to  **liberate** themselves from such clustered toxicity. No more would he be dressed in inexperience, accessorized by vulnerability with standing naked in oversight, to be ravaged and clawed upon by the scarlet red and purple of his scars. Positive resolutions become such unending hope and a catalyst for haunting nightmares as the bellowing from both sides begins to conspire together and form insanity. He knows, he will be able to survive all of this if he could continue strolling the depth of his mind against his brewing willpower. 

Then nothing will become an  **impossibility** as he chases a beautiful horizon past the gloomy baroque of  _misguided hopelessness_ ; when their very home is supposed to give them  **absolute, tranquil comfort**. 


	24. Chapter 24

  * **24\. — _agony_  **



The cacophonous thrum of the night unfolding isn’t any louder than the music produced within him as it fades into the distance. That **strange chill** , engulfing him and holding him together akin to a magnetic force holding his somatic cells. For he had wore a mask for so long and he forgets who he was beneath all the garbage of emotions. 

Through the edge of the hurricane of his humanity,  **shock** breaks through  _rage_ as he finds the most awful truth he will ever come to find. And a cup of **fizzing anger** still boils over the edge of his soul, even when he’s  _slowly drowning_ beneath the deep purple of the midnight hues, as an ocean he is yet to see comes into view. He knows, he couldn’t ever outrun his own destiny and neither can anyone, despite  _valiantly_ and  _resiliently_ trying.

Stumbling upon something that will start a  **fire** within him as the flaying thread hangs suspended in the air, seeping strength and vigor and his utmost concentration along with it. It’s like walking on the **teetering edge**  between the stark awareness and bottomless oblivion as the puppeteer’s string threading into the fibers of his muscles, taking an absolute control as his own, in return,  _relinquishes_ as heavy drops of mercury weighs his appendages down. 

Flowers may blossom and bloom inside his heart for the longest time, yet it lacks the  _air_ they need and  _sweeping sunshine_ without the harshness of **undulating atmosphere** of the desert, threatening to pluck them out by the deepest roots. For he shakes with a feeling of red and that’s all he ever feels beneath the foggiest of days as he continues to swim in the  **deepness** of his soul. 

A  **bizarre calmness** washes over him, just like the serenity before a spectacle of torn fibers and every little sensation feeds off of even the disconnecting ones. Moving through an autopilot, programmed to cut through any  _useless routes_  as he focuses the serenity of the burn itself against the back of his throat.. Not wiping the trail of liquor contouring the curve of his neck, along the heart of the pin-up girl tattoo breathing the life of its own, he guzzles through the amber liquid before watching a trail of smoke swirl and cup around a fallen lock on his forehead as he lights a cigarette. 

**Hunger** begins to creep over him, he doesn’t know exactly which as he parts from the comfort of the seated position. It may be the struggle he’s in today which elicits him to find and develop the strength, as  _day in, day out_ , he would be marred and scarred with combat with the  **slightest provocation**  kindling the unquenchable fire within him.

As much as he had been very expressive and more or less genuine, his uncompromising nature, standoffish persona and his basilisk stare, a hint of  _animosity_ and  _malignancy_ eating him away like a contagion sweeping through his body, metastasizing through his organs. He’s well aware and perceivant of his own body immediately tensing up, fingers turning white upon the dripping moisture. When something temporary as his own affliction, turning a **double-edged sword** as he finds it a particularly strange time to both  _come alive_ , and letting the _fleeting numbness_ overshadow everything in his reach.

It’s something he desperately wants hold onto it too tightly, yet that warmth is fading within decision and indecision. His  _downfall_ happening too quick as his hidden room exposed, all of his  **unsanctioned activities**  and all of his  **possessions** confiscated, he never stood a chance against the insider job, his  _capstone_ crumbling as rapidly as the castle built upon sand. Like a carrion attracting a family of worms, the club, which had been his absolute  _everything_ , had been seized in a  **chagrin**. 

Nigel, the one with the Lecter blood which could be traced back  _centuries_ , and although he had been as narcissistic and smug bastard about everything that he did, that didn’t mean he was excluded from being consumed by **monstrous love**  and torment of his own universe  _stabbing_ his back. 

His body burns like hell with the intensity of the music and its appeal leaking out of his body as it turns akin to the crowd’s chant growing in volume. He could feel the **imminent danger,**  of its prodding and  _ramifications_ and the idea both  **exquisite** and  **catastrophic**. Like how the grandiosity of the building in the  **brink of demolition**  is beautiful. The sensation engulfing him beyond an euphoria. 


	25. Chapter 25

  * **25\. — _return_  **



Eyes with the color of the **tumultuous sky**  embedded beneath the visor of his helmet hones with a tunnel vision of a stallion, as a cloudy periwinkle grey with the falling of a  **thousand flurries** become splattering crystal drops upon his broad shoulders, encased in supple and worn-out leather. With hair quilted in  _dark_ and  _shadowy_ fading light reflected onto the streaks of puddles, the **reverberating engine**  of the Ducati beneath his thigh continues to purr as the array of pinks and oranges signal the **death of today** as he loses himself through the  _winding landscape_  of Eastern Europe. 

He intoxicates himself beneath the **bitterness of the night,**  as the night swirls like a black hole in outer space. And how he holds **liquid starlights**  unfurling in his gripped hands as they weave the dust through his slouched form,  _immovable_ , yet malleable against the force of  **gravity** and  **acceleration**. 

And hope is such the greatest gift and how it lifts his  _corporeality_ , despite the sinking heavy rocks having claimed his entirety. He builds roads brick by brick in front of him, as if he is  **floating** and  **bouncing** on the balls of his feet. The fizz breaks over his throat as the deafening roar of the engine rings against his temples, as the blinding headlight from the car’s bumper threatens to tip over the tail of his motorcycle. 

The mountainous terrain is  _unsettling_ at best, but he still is in a calm place beneath the  **rapid thrum** of his heartbeat as the thrill of the chaser and chased continues. He’s  **moving** , hurtling through the thickening mist and knowing regardless of  _circumstances_ , he’d either ascend or descend or halt his pace in order to deceive and  _surreptitiously_ make out alive unscathed. He will take  **another direction** , for he’d taken numeroous chances to slay his own demon, to leave what no longer serves him. 

_Riveted_ , he makes straight towards the **curving mountainside** as the swelling moonlight almost  _drowns_ him,  _insulting_ him with a brightness he couldn’t devour up. And couldn’t quite soak up. And straightening up from the sea of milky night that had enveloped him in entirety as he lets it drip, drip down the curvature of his musculatuure, sweat and his veins teasingly pulsate as water pumps through the leaf-veins of once torn, but now healed heart as his chest continues to beat of arteriole resilience and tenacity. 

Alive, _fully awake_ , as his  **resurgence** continues through evel knievel way of living. No drop of blood would be blocked off to; not when Nigel Lecter’s state of  **fully blossoming**  takes its place beneath an  _unrelenting_ self grasping and seeking for the **light of dawn** at the speed of light. 


	26. Chapter 26

  * **26\. — _protection_  **



It immediately begins as the moon rose, stirring towards something  **unknown**. The wind  _whispers_ to him, all the secrets that  _shake_ the soul, tearing deep into his heart. How could he know what was to come when such  **harrowing** , an  _omen of some sort_  tears deep into his heart. And he wonders if he remembers who he was before all the hurt set in from the past’s involuntary cuts. 

It’s not their fault,  _not really;_  after all, how could they see just how broken he was through the  **almost impenetrable shield** he uses?  _Does he though? Remember?_  Memories that continued to pile up around him were in fact,  _blocking_ him from moving forward. Without all the tears that would seem to constantly  **drown** him, never quite letting him reach the surface as what he thought Nigel Lecter’s life to become. 

At first, dreams  **plague** him, stealing  _respite_ , causing him to fall headfirst into a shallow, unconscious state. Those  **tendrils of sleep**  drifted away as it quickly replaces with some dark shroud, and waking moments become the escape. No dread looms over him, yet his skin shivers and a  _pool of white_  spreads around his bare feet, as the **frozen touch**  both sharpens and hinders his exceptional attentiveness. 

How everything winds over the expanse of his landscape that continues to glisten. The night becoming his day as he steps over the  _threshold_ of the  **boundary**. And atmosphere trickles into him, weaving its sins and sorrows through the bars of his sallow ribcage as the moonlight itself becomes the  **curtain of another time** , separating him from a clicking monologue of forbidden speech, of things that have been long torn and better left in the sands of a  _forgetful_ winter day. 

His bronze eyes flecks with  **gold** , against an open flame that warms and warns in equal measure; the  _mindscape_ of his brain glows red with the sharp marks of its discomfort. Hope like a flower can bloom, with gentle petals opening and show itself to passerby with such vibrancy. Yet, he’s known to  _familiarize_ **decay** and all the scattered, trampled leaves more as the restless stirring of the trees would shake it overhead. The image itself may beckon him to the  **past** , where the trees stood silent to  _attention_ ,  **held in position** by their knotted limbs, casting their shadows and trickery to the present. 

Even with all the fragments of himself left to  _tangle_ and  _sever_ , he awaits his own chance to grow in the  **moment’s present** , even when his wounds still ache even without fingers pressed inside of them. He’d  _endure_ all the floodwater and ravaging onslaught of elements, despite bleeding more than all he wants. He refuses to be _smothered, extinguished_ and  _pulverized_ beneath the  **unsteadiness** , all the  _broken promise_  of  **solidity** of his life. 


	27. Chapter 27

  * **27\. — _boxes_  **



_Incomplete_ and  _unrecognizable_ , that’s what he’d be without Gabi, who is the  **last brightest star**  in his constellation. She may be one of his reasons to keep on living, because if he  _died_ , he would never get to see her smile again, or hear them laugh again. With no one of his favorite tunes  _resonating_ and  _singing_ through, cutting all the trivial things like being hungry or doggone exhausted. Every word he hands onto and in his  **lonesomeness** , he plays such  _evoking sensation_  of happiness gently streaming through him. Most often, that said happiness turns  **deliberately misconstrued** as he attempts to make himself feel sad and miss her in above all things, because he already goes through the various shades and tones of life, have all of the colors at his disposal; from the deepest of reds to the coolest of blues. 

**Nothing** would be easier without her, because she is everything, all of it - her favorite donuts from the cafe they used to frequent, the effervescent mornings with all the gentility of the world, the sinful, lustrous lair that still reeks of their sex as sweeping palpitation of EDM working in tandem with their accelerating heartbeats - she is the **ever-expanding universe**  to him and it is tough to endure this fucking feeling of himself sliping away from his grasp. He’d never promised to  _leave_ , ever again, not after he was forced to leave Bucharest against his absolute will. Yet, like grains of sand falling through his tightly clenched hands one grain at a time, he could feel himself slowly pulverizing, beneath the hopelessness and helplessness. 

He always had found  **strength** to rise from the ashes after whatever burned him down to the ground, but when he sets foot back into such  _grieving_ ,  _harrowing_ atmosphere, he knows for sure that he’d continuously and endlessly  **burn**. His world continues to be wrapped in shrouds of a dying body, left alone above the  **memorial towers** of his past; engaged in a constant battle by wanting to have its place in an untold history above the spider’s webs of incomprehension. 

Of what’s lost through the stretched time in the  _deliverance_ of its fate in a bloody field of  **pain** and  **resignation**. The static sieve of his mind stirs his all-too overwhelming mind as ambits of the world’s understanding, or more concisely,  _lack_ of understanding gives way to his  **apathetic nonchalance**. He’s in  _pain_ , the fucking world which he embodies and resides is no more than  _madness_ and  _weakness_ , the insanity of his  **vulnerability** striking him at uncontrollable will as he wishes to find the meaning of what encloses and entraps him. 

They aren’t more or less  **unrealized dreams**  that he regrets and he searches for another scope of time he has, to look for a  _glimpse_ from above, as his being becomes an **incarnate of a ship**  in the horizon.  ****As his view frees from the _labyrinthine_ of his past, he remains at an  **impasse** , for he has no new life to look forward to. 

He would never fully recover from both  _physical_ and  _emotional_ damage, to deal with both a child and a demon residing inside him as a body of mid-forties still struggles to live a  **responsible** and  **less destructive** way. His  _protest_ , of resistance isn’t raw and bloody, yet such **regurgitated pain** fails to amend with its soothing counterpart, as he wishes to suffocate in his own strident shouts.


	28. Chapter 28

  * **28\. — _hope_  **



**Sadness** _dwells_ in the space he reside in, yet he’d never let it drag him in. He’s not going to let himself steered towards the  **black hole** , with all the fucking phantom that makes his home in the dust and cobwebs in his cramped bedroom. It becomes a  _poltergeist_ flitting in and out of sunbeams and bumping in the  **perpetual darkness** of his curtained room, as the  _world’s presence_ remains an uninvited guest. 

He may not cry a **terrible, awful, heaving cries** , but his heart’s  _palpitations_ and abrupt jumping in his quasi-sleep leaves a cool, colorless trails doown his hot heartbeat skin, whispering like autumn winds past. The defined bumps of his hips turn  **once-rosy copper skin**   _blue_ and  _rotting_ , deadening beneath the stale air’s gray touch. He does not want the sun to dance around his  _peripherals_ , through his eyelashes as he refuses to break out of the  **darkness** and relishing the circles of purple the  **restless night** puts beneath his eyes. 

On hot midsummer nights, he feels like even the slightest movement is sllipping  **a knife**  between the slatted ribs and his gut, a _sharp sliver_ of magmatic furnace heat burning him between his muscles, stinging and burning where his poison fingers probe his woound for his **bloody essence** that he seeks to make his own. He’d wake with bruised flesh, hues of purples and blues and browns, where his hungry hands have  _grabbed_ and  _tugged_ at his limbs in an attempt to  **negate** the pain. 

He continues to live both in  **dismal grayscale**  and in  **ghastly technicolor**. He cannot find his place in-between  **fragile equilibrium** where nothing makes sense. And he looks so terribly young laying there; hair tousled from sleep, cheeks feverish. Burning up as inaudible moans falls from his lips like a prayer. Startled, as his frantic heart thumps against his temples and he feels like as if it’s going to project off his corporeality. Despite most of pain going  _unnoticed_ beneath the finality of  **wretched sleep**  finally grasping him, the tangerine sun’s  _merciless glare_ continues to pluck him from the absolute silence. 

He could almost taste the freshly lit cigarette and fresh, oily grounds of coffee beneath his flat. There’s a pain in his exhale; weak and soft, almost like a **gurgled murmur.**  As if his  _inability_ to move and sink further is literally killing him more than the injury itself. The familiarity of the gossamer music trails and crawls around his windows, then begins its  **gentle serenade**  - just like the warmth against his burning neck, whispering for his  _agitated_ and  _tense_ body to relax and gently mold back into his unperturbed  _respite_. 

With equal parts of focus and abandon, he feels the chemical course through his haunting fingers. No more sharp talons grasp around the edge of stained bedsheets as  **marionette puppet** limbs drop their tenacious resist. What becomes the most semblance of peaceful oblivion, in tandem with a symphony of twirling notes elicit him for  _consumption_ and  _moderation_ and finally,  **surrender**. 

The wounds may brood, yet he feels absolutely  _safe_ , without becoming too sick and thirsty, bored and berated.

 


	29. Chapter 29

  * **29.— _preparation_  **



_Encouragement_ doesn’t equal the  **extended arousal** , for it had lost its long luster. Until he renders useless with  _incapacitations_ and as he regains the **tenacious quality**  and resistance of a rubber; the  _natural progression_ of his miraculously clinging life, which never seems to  **cease** , he would never step down from hard-earned status of  _superpredator_ , no contention or deserved nemesis. Through the **blackened pyres**  of the night still burning crackles of light, his heart, astray with hunger and silence would thump and pulse against the  **slatted bars** of his ribcage, urging the  _promise_ of his retaliation. 

As he unwinds beneath the deepening stretch of midnight azure, melancholy and loneliness thickens, concurrently as he draws strength from his own darkness. Barrage of gunshots his  **celebratory firework** , as veins would thrum like drums, as the  **smoky blackness** would heighten his light. 

He still tastes the _red, velvety spurt_ , still continuing in his peripheral vision and his fingers trace through the  **obsidian darkness**  as they trace with veins, plucking the strings of the closed-off ambiance. Where no  _perceivable_ nor  _noticeable_ sign of thrumming life remains to be audible. The elevation of one’s  _heartbeat_ , blurring limbs tranced beneath the contouring neon lights and endless exchanges of liquor, arousal and sex rushes to pour down the  **chasm** of the night. 

And that alone is his  _being_ , his  _reason_ , his calm in the midst of chaos. With the steady beat of his heart as his drum, the comfort of the  **familiar dankness**  of his flat and office his sun. He may not be so strong and invinsible as he’d like, but he wears his  **appurtenance** and  **craft** of his profession well. And that’s all that matters in this life. 

As usual, his heart is at steady-beat, as calm as the _unperturbed ocean_ , still as a snapshot of the Polaroid as he accesses through the scenery unfolded beneath him. Grim, caved in hazel takes in the view, though his **limited vision** offers one-side of things. The aiding moonbeam distinguishes the untranslatable boundaries of where  **he** begins and the **utilitarian room’s furniture** ends. Even when he’s completely empty in pain thanks to all the _benumbing clutch_ of drug coursing through his throbbing veins, he’s never beyond perturbed with the  **persistent urge** for bloodshed. Not his damned own. 

He could literally taste the gurgling blood upon his throat as if his had been slit open. Life is such a strange thing to perceive, he thinks, even when he’s still affected with the horridness of fading colors, regaining strength, persevering through the numerous drills of spears onto his body as the flesh held onto his severed flesh, rippling beneath each fluttering ebb and flow of his heart, then a  **reverberation**. It blankets him like a  _heartless sea_ \- he gets swept away by merciless gales and his seemingly smaller, tanned form gradually comforting him like the warm waves of the broad daylight.

His dilated pupils turning a notch darker, as if seeping in all the traces of  **ominous darkness** like the black hole. There’s  **broken beauty** in letting himself cross that irreversible path and suffocate himself in the remnant of his existing self and before he does that, watching it morph into a _corroding bundle_  of discharging energy. He’d dip his heart in the wet cement of the atmosphere and turn his affliction and pain into discharged vindictiveness, his brand of fury as he lets all go into the liquid magma of his erupting  **gunblaze**. 


	30. Chapter 30

  * **30.— _beautiful_  **



He’s back to this  **limbo** again; a space where not a fucking damn thing makes sense, where the  **savage, untamed animal**  within him is lost, wondering if there’s a way out of this cage of illusion. _How can he be what he cannot be? Does he lie with his tongue that is filled with the truth, without all the fabricated deceits and lies?_

What is the purpose of fucking  _forsaking_ the  **foundation** of his love?He’s completely lost of how to analyze the  **essence** of such thing that both  _built_ and  _destroyed_ him at the same time; for he’d died and resurrected again and again through the breaths, the  **struck notes of the world**  urging and egging him to rise, rise through the language of his thoughts. 

He’d allowed the world to see what can only be seen, and he’s alone, when he’s at his most  **nakedness**. A part of him will always exude and spill forth, even when the rest that is never shown resides behind the  _adamantine_ and  _tenacious_ walls of his heart, there will always be an  **excapism**  in his expression. For he is,  **the fucking openness of a landscape** , as the atmosphere  _resonates_ with his fervent, almost  _sickly_ heat. And he does not question with his diminishing faith, for that partakes to mirror his doubt. 

How can he tell when a face is wearing the same  **constructed mask** , knowing he is based on love while the other side of him still resonates fear? The _unadmitted fear_ that he won’t ever have resilience to resist the  **quicksand** of his  _fading memories_ and  _presence_  gnaws him as he wonders if he’d ever allow this particular one to become the learning method of  _living_ ,  _surviving_. And his heart will be broken, if it already hasn’t; but he will  **heal** ,  _as he’d always have_. If he permits himself to recover, to let go of whatever or whomever that had caused or committed the murder of his most precious and grandiose self, then his permanence in the world will be fulfilled through his words. 

How they  _resonate_ through his **utmost intent,**  with all the felt, shaped, perceived and understood puddle of the valves of his heart,  **effervescently gushing** as his shallow, long breaths fog up the vibrating oxygen mask. He remains stuck in the one-way traffic of being silent in the  **immesurable depth**  of onyx sea of his  _unconscious_ and  _subconscious_ , staring at the horizon, locked in the pensieve of a transient realm stretching too far out and too in depth. Such burning in the chest continues, as real emotions come flooding all his senses. And memory after memory keeps rushing in; even those he hadn’t even realized he had locked away. 

That’s why he felt like he was slowly dying for so long, as  **void** _blooms_ in his chest and  **apathy** _solidifues_ his bones; yet, he would let Gabi become the **infinite treasure**  which fills the abyss, for she is the passion which supported his trembling feet. And emptiness feels so much heavier now, despite him breathing out the flames of life she used to  _provide_ him, now threatening to  **extinguish** him. 


End file.
